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Hi everyone! Stephen Wormwood
here, thanks for clicking! Feedback and criticism is always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com. As always hope you enjoy reading this and please
consider donating to Nifty if you can.
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Please
read some of my other stories on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay,
fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay,
fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).
**********
7. THE REPUBLIC OF
DENVER, Part 3
**********
Hard times is here
and everywhere you go
Times are harder
than ever been before
You know that
people, they are drifting from door to door
But you can't find
no heaven, I don't care where they go
People, if I ever
can get up off of this old hard killing floor
Lord, I'll never
get down this low no more
When you hear me
singing this old lonesome song,
People, you know
these hard times can last us so long
You know, you say
you had money, you better be sure
Lord, these hard
times gon' kill you, just drag on slow...
-
Skip James
**********
This is what I know about that night.
609 people of the 4,857 people who
successfully escaped to the Del Mar Park encampment were killed. 126 2nd
Battalion soldiers were confirmed dead and over 350 went missing. What was left
of the Republic of Denver gathered that information from the registers later
taken at Buckley, cross-referenced against the registers made at the Key Bank
Building, right before it was destroyed. Nothing was confirmed for the
Foragers. I know Ned took out at least ten of them at the evac point – but it
was thanks to the Humvee he was able to mop up those psychos. If we didn't go
back into Denver for it, who know what would've happened? Cannibal food, I
guess.
Jesus.
That wasn't the worst night of my
life. But I don't think I'll ever forget it, either. The fire. The smoke and
the blood. The death. You ever see a minigun turn people into Swiss cheese?
Trust me, you don't want to, no matter how much a fucker deserves it. I never
saw the city of Denver again after that – and I hope I never have to.
Once the Battalion established a
perimeter around the evac point, Ned and Tom Cherry calmed the crowds and got
them all into the convoy safely, while I brought the Dodge Ram around to pick
up Parker and McCullough. The drive to Buckley wasn't long at all, just a short
five miles from Del Mar... if anything it was so close to the city, I thought the
Foragers might catch up to us, but I was wrong about that. Once we drove
through the gate and saw those old radomes rising with the bright red sun, once
we got close, and I saw its defenses for myself, I knew that Buckley wouldn't
fall as easily as Del Mar did.
On the drive there McCullough told us
about it. It was one of four `bases' that the 2nd Battalion seized
around the Denver-Aurora area and fortified as fallback points if anything ever
happened to the Republic – war, disease, natural disasters, that sort of thing.
It was big enough to house tens of thousands of people back in the old world, but
Ned Creighton and his men spent years re-fitting it for the Republic's needs,
demolishing all the outer structures with cranes and bulldozers (back when most
were still operational and sufficiently fueled) and digging massive trenches
around its outer fields. Around the centermost part of the base ran a partly
constructed wall made up of scrap metal, wire fencing, brick, and barb wire.
Those parts not yet completed were patched with stacks of rusted old cars and
trucks. There were wooden watchtowers within, and sniper roosts. It was where
most of the city's preservable food and armaments were hidden, and it was
manned by around 200 or more Battalion soldiers at any given time.
Buckley, she said, was the Republic
of Denver's last line of defense, it's citadel. And it had the defenses and
resources to hold off the Foragers, that much was true, but for how long? The
Foragers probably didn't have the manpower to take Buckley, but they could damn
sure besiege it. And how long would the food, water, and meds last if they did?
Buckley wasn't salvation, it was
respite.
And Tom fucking Cherry knew it.
**********
There was a Battalion soldier, a tall
guy, Hispanic, unbuckled chin straps swinging from his camo-colored helm, who
served Jay a plastic tray of rations with a broad smile. The soldier probably
confused him with one of the hundreds of Denver's townsfolk who were still too
weak to walk up to the bulging serving line on the other side of the cafeteria,
where a small team of smocked and aproned townies ladled out hot bowls of soup
and served them with slices of acorn bread and butter packets. There was a
separate station for bottled water and another for hot water and freeze-dried
coffee. About 300 people sat to long, half rusted aluminum tables and filled
their bellies. In a half-hour's time a bell would ring, and they'd be asked to
finish up and make their way out through the fire exit at the eastern wall so
the next 300 or so townies could come to be served.
The food tray the soldier gave to Jay
wasn't intended for the Republicans (not yet anyway). These were military
rations. A packet of spam, a packet of crackers, a packet of butter, a packet
of brownies, a packet of plastic cutlery, a bottle of water and a juice box.
"You have it," said the soldier, warmly.
"I'm going back on guard duty. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."
Jay smiled. Of course, it was a fake
smile, he wasn't hungry after all. He told Parker and McCullough as much when
they went up to get served. Still, it was a nice gesture. And when Jay smiled
the soldier smiled back, shot him a wink, and went off about his business.
McCullough grinned at him across the
table, partway through her soup bowl. "He's cute, you should get his number."
Fuck you, thought Jay. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
She shrugged. "If you don't laugh, you
cry, dude."
Parker wasn't laughing though. He was
more focused on the horde of refugeed Republicans ambling around him. He'd
woofed his food in that doggish way of his, slurping and gnawing his way down
to an empty tray, then turned jaded eyes to the assembled townsfolk. They were
tired, dirty, battered, and lost. Civilians with thousand-yard stares. But
Parker eyed them all with nascent suspicion.
"We gotta get the fuck out of here," he
said lowly. "They've got their guns and Humvee. We've got our supplies. The
deal's done. We gotta move before the Foragers come back."
Jay frowned but said nothing in
counterpoint. Parker's logic was ugly and flawless, like it always was when it
came to these sorts of things. If the Foragers laid siege to the Buckley Base,
then they were trapped in a cage with thousands of screaming, ill-disciplined
inmates. Food and water would not last. Disease would ramp up. That's how
sieges worked.
Still, there was a lot of talk around the
cafeteria that the Battalion had re-grouped at Del Mar to hold off the Foragers
and push them back towards the city, out of Aurora. If it was true, then it was
the opportunity they needed. And Parker wasn't planning on wasting it.
"I need to talk to Ned first," said
McCullough.
Parker sneered.
"I owe him," she said. "He took me
in when others tried to kick me out. I can't just cut and run on him. Come with
me or don't, but I'm saying goodbye."
It struck Jay then how unafraid
McCullough was to stand up Parker. To Jay, the late Pastor's son felt like a
tide washing him out to sea. Irresistible. Unimpeachable. That's what he
felt like. But McCullough didn't fear being swept away, hell, she fought
back against the waves and swam to shore. Was she really that strong? Or was
Jay just that cowardly?
I hate her, he thought again, bitterly. I HATE her.
Parker just shook his head and snatched
the juice box off Jay's tray.
"Fuck it," he said. "Fine. We'll go with
you."
Parker told Jay to hurry up and eat so they could go.
He still wasn't hungry, but if they were going to be leaving soon
he needed the energy. He ate what he could, then pocketed the rest just as the
bell was rung for the next wave of Republicans to come in. Tablets rattled,
chairs scraped, and sporks clattered as people moved to leave by the hundreds
and Parker, Jay and McCullough slipped away with them out the fire exit double
doors into the sun-bleached sprawl of the base's concrete grounds. McCullough
led the way.
"I've only been here a few times," she said. "The
Colonel did evac drills every three months just in case of a day like this.
Guess they came in handy after all."
Denver still burned. It was too far to see the city or
the fires, but the smoke was impossible to miss – tall black towers of ash and
fumes climbing darkly out of the horizon and wafting up into a cloudless blue
sky. Jay couldn't look away from them. When he saw them, he saw the Foragers
again, blowing up apartment buildings and gunning down Battalion soldiers. How
close had they come to sharing the city's fate? They were lucky.
How long could that kind of luck last?
Away from all the landing strips, radomes, hangers,
bunkers, and barracks stood a central administrative building surrounded by
grass fields and concrete plinths decorated with retired aircraft models,
rusted and paint-striped, but still impressive somehow. Jay had never seen an
actual plane in the air before. It seemed impossible that something so big
could take to the sky like a bird and fly.
The admin building was like a concrete cube topped
with glass. The Star-Spangled Banner flew from each of its three flagpoles.
They were not tattered, or dirty, or speckled with bird shit (like so many of
the rest throughout America's bleeding corpse) these flags were freshly pressed
and clean. The 2nd Battalion may have taken Buckley for the Republic
of Denver, but they did it in the name of the United States.
They still think it's coming back, Jay thought. After everything they've been through... That seemed
so stupid to him. Hoping against hope for a dream that would never come true. But
then maybe the dream is what keeps them going.
Two guards stood out front by the non-functional
processing gate. They wouldn't let McCullough in at first, but they radioed the
main office and asked the Lieutenant Colonel for his permission to allow them through.
It was granted, and a third private came down to escort the trio into the
building, up its carpeted steps and steel-tone corridors, all the way to the
main office at its apex. McCullough ignored the buzzer and knocked the door
instead.
"Come in," called Ned.
The office, much like the building, was immaculately
kept. In fact, it was the cleanest room Jay had seen since leaving Polk. It was
furnished with clean cream carpeting, smooth mahogany
bookcases, grey-painted filing cabinets, a functional clock, potted cacti, even
a portable water cooler. Its carefully washed windows (lined with equally
carefully washed steel latticework) gave a sweeping shot of the Coloradan
landscape even as the ashes of Denver rose against the beautiful backdrop of
the Rockies. The desk, Ned's desk, was made of glass and steel, and suited the
room perfectly. That was where they found him, sat tersely upon his leather
office chair. But he wasn't alone. His wife, Sarah Creighton, sat with him on
the other side of the glass. And she looked exhausted. They both did.
The private shut the door and left the five of them in
peace.
"Welcome to Buckley, kids." Said Ned. "We try to keep
it nice for our guests."
Parker smirked. "It's looking better than Denver."
If it was meant to be a dig then Ned didn't take it
that way. "You're young, son. If you're lucky, you'll end up caring about
something someday. But you know what? A lot of people would've died back there
if not for you. All three of you. I can't thank you enough for that. There's
three weeks' worth of food, water, and fuel in your Dodge Ram. I had my boys
see to it. Take it with kindness. And Godspeed to you, it's a rough world out
there."
McCullough sighed, audibly. "...Colonel, I-"
And Ned met her sigh with a grin. "Oak leaf, not
eagle. Remember?"
"Lieutenant-Colonel," she corrected. "...I, um...
you've done right by me. I can't thank you enough, but..."
Ned didn't stop smiling (in that soft way of his) but
his mood dampened. "...But you want to leave too."
"I'm sorry, I'm just... not built for this. I'm not a
soldier. I'm sorry."
The leader of the 2nd Battalion lifted out
of his chair, circled the desk, and with a broad smile gave McCullough's
shoulder a fatherly little squeeze. "Hey. You don't have to apologize to me,
kiddo. None of this was ever your responsibility and I'm sorry I
dragged you into it. You go and be safe out there, okay? Be smart and be
strong."
"I will," she said. "...What about you, though? What
will you do?"
This time Ned's smile left him. He returned to his
chair and his graveled face went cold as stone. "All the councilmen are dead.
All of them. Some chefs treated them to supper at the old Mexican restaurant
when Forager shock troops shot it full of 66mms. We didn't even have time to
dig their bodies out of the rubble."
Parked picked his ear, he was already half-bored with
the conversation. "So, what does that mean?"
"It means that Ned's in charge now," said Sarah. And
judging by her soured expression she wasn't very happy about it. That was when
the walkie-talkie on Ned's hip belt buzzed. "Office, this is front gate,
over."
"Front gate, this is Office, go ahead,
over."
"Office, we have Tom Cherry
here, says you wanted to see him, over."
Ned nodded. "Affirmative, Front Gate,
send him up, over."
"Roger that, Office, over and
out."
The Lieutenant-Colonel reclined in his
chair, stolidly, threading his fingers together. Jay recalled the council
meeting in Del Mar yesterday – what Ned Creighton intended for his 2nd
Battalion to do – and then the words leapt out of his mouth, "You're going to
fight them, aren't you?"
"...That's one of my options, yeah."
"But not necessarily the right
one," said Sarah. She pointed behind him, towards the window, where the ashes
of Denver loomed over the fields. "The city is gone, Ned. Our villages,
our farms, our water towers, our larders, our armories. Everything! Half the
vehicles are gone. I've lost 40 nurses, 22 doctors, and 12 surgeons in just
three days! That's nearly half my team, and we have hundreds of sick and
wounded to care for. I know how much you love this place, but we have to put our people first."
Ned glared at her. "You don't think that's
what I'm doing? You think I'm fighting these cannibals for fun?"
But Sarah glared back. "I think you're
letting your pride get the better of you."
Jay, Parker, and McCullough held their
silence as husband and wife exchanged frosty glances across that glass desk. It
was a microcosm of the conversations that Denver's survivors were having right
now. Back in the cafeteria Jay overheard all the arguments. Some wanted to stay
and fight. Others wanted to leave. Some wanted to strike a bargain. Some younger
ones were even talking about Octavia Wilkes. But there was no consensus, and
with the councilmen gone, all the power laid with the 2nd
Battalion... and Ned Creighton.
The army man pushed himself up again by
the armrests, and walked over to the office windows, ceiling to floor panes of
reinforced glass. He turned his back to his guests and eyed the ruins of the
Republic slowly floating through the sky. The ruins of his magnus opus.
"...You know..." Ned paused to chuckle
gloomily, then resumed. "I always dreamt that one day a senator, a speaker, or
even a president would meet me in this room and thank us all for keeping this
city safe. That when America finally woke up... Denver would be here to greet
her. Don't you understand? If we give up now, then that's it. America's
over, and what's left of it belongs to the crazy people. And I'm not prepared
to do that. I swore an oath... to support and defend the Constitution of the
United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; to bear true faith and
allegiance to the same; to take that obligation freely, without any mental
reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I would well and faithfully
discharge the duties of the office on which was about to enter – so help me
God. That meant something to me. And I thought you understood that."
Sarah bit her lip. "Ned, please..."
His shoulders tightened when he heard her
voice – but he didn't look back at her. "Even when this country was segregated,
my family fought for it. My granddad fought the Nazis, my dad fought the Viet
Cong, I'm fighting the fucking Foragers. And Lord willing, I'll win."
Silence.
Then a knock.
"Come in," said Ned.
The door opened. Jay, McCullough (and
Parker, at McCullough's request) stepped aside as a stern but baggy-eyed Tom
Cherry strode in with three guards at his back, not Battalion soldiers but
members of the Civilian Levy they trained. Their old Winchester rifles rattled
at their backs as they entered, shutting the door behind them. They didn't
salute Ned, curiously.
Ned turned to face them from across the
room. "Glad you could come, Tom."
Although he strode in sternly the Lt
Col's second-in-command stilled when he saw Sarah. The doctor looked away from
him, guiltily. Then Jay remembered what was going on between the two of them.
With McCullough and the Foragers and Parker's moodiness, he almost forgot that
Sarah Creighton-Kyle and Tom Cherry were fucking.
"Sarah," said Tom. "What are you doing
here?"
Ned frowned. "She has every right to be
here, Tom. She's sacrificed so much for the Republic, you both have. That's why
I wanted you both to hear it first. We're going on the offensive. Look
here," There was a map of Denver spread out across the Lieutenant-Colonel's
desk that he directed them to, jabbing his finger at a central point in the
city. "This is where the scouts say the Foragers are based, the Mile-High
Stadium. If we marshal the Battalion and the Civ Levies for a full-frontal
assault on the Forager outposts on the western side of the I-25, we can thin
their forces, and then a smaller team can loop around the city, sneak into
their camp, and blow it to hell. Cut off the head and the body will follow."
Tom Cherry gaped at him, incredulous.
"Are... are you serious?" The Lt Col's
deputy turned to the Lt Col's wife. "Sarah, talk to him, make him see sense!"
But Sarah fell silent, looked away from
both men, her eyes glassing over with un-spilt tears. Maybe having them at odds
with each other in the same room was too much for her. Whore, thought
Jay. This is your mess, stew in it. He glared at McCullough when
he thought it.
Ned's frown darkened. "Don't fight me on
this, Tom. You've already done it once, don't do it again."
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
Roared Tom. "Jesus Christ, Ned, how much blood is enough? How far is this gonna
go? And for what? The city's on fire, everything's gone! Most of those
folks out there don't have much more'n the clothes on their backs! We gotta get
them to safety, not throw more good men at a lost cause! The Republic is dead,
man! Enough is enough!"
But Ned Creighton, stone-faced and stolid,
wouldn't budge. "I'm assigning you to the main push. Sergeant Jackson's Alpha
Platoon will conduct the infiltration of Mile End Stadium, and Major Busch will
coordinate the operation. Mission briefing is at 13:00 in Hanger 909. Go get
some rest before then, you look like you'll need it."
Tom Cherry just looked at him,
dumbfounded. "You're not gonna stop, are you?"
Ned held his frown.
He wouldn't budge.
So.
Tom Cherry shot him.
The motion was so swift, so fluid, no one
saw it coming; a calloused hand reaching down to a swinging leather hip
holster, unbuttoning it, then smoothly raising up its Beretta, flicking off the
safety, squeezing the trigger four times – four shots. One to chest, one to
head, a second to the chest and the last through the shoulder. Ned Creighton,
commander of the 2nd Battalion and the leader of Republic of Denver,
coughed a glut of blood before his eyes rolled into his skull and his feet gave
way, collapsing into the soft cream carpet with a thump.
Sarah screamed. "NOOOOOOOOO!"
Instinct that made Parker and McCullough
reach for their weapons, but Tom Cherry's men already unstrapped their old
Winchester 9422s and had them at gunpoint before their fingers even grazed the
grips. Both stepped back and slowly raised their hands into the air.
Sarah screamed herself hoarse as she
fought to reach her husband, but Tom Cherry pulled her back and folded his arms
around her, holding her tight. "Sarah! Sarah, stop it, it's over!"
"No!" She yelled. "NO! He didn't deserve
that! Why did you do that, Tom? Why?"
"Because he would've gotten us all
killed!" He roared. "Angus, come help me over here!"
Angus, one of the three guards at Tom's
command, lowered his rifle and `collected' the doctor as she cried and thrashed
so hard her shoe fell off. His orders were simple then – "Keep her away from
everyone else until she calms down." The stout Angus nodded and dragged
Sarah-Creighton Kyle out of the office into an adjoining room where her
horrified screams became a muffled tantrum.
"Fuck you!" Spat McCullough. "You won't
get away with that!"
Tom Cherry turned at sneered at her.
"What do you mean me? You mean YOU won't get away with that. YOU came up
to his office. YOU shot him. And YOU are gonna hang for it. And those two new
friends of yours are going to a Cheyenne pen."
Parker's eyes flared. "The fuck you
say?!"
Wuhrer, Jay thought. He's talking about Wuhrer!
"Wuhrer. You cooked his son, remember?
You didn't think he was just gonna give up, did you? I bargained with him this
morning. I give him you two, he calls in his militia to give my people safe passage
out of this shithole. The 55ers got their own score to settle with the
Foragers."
"FUCK YOU!" Spat Parker.
Tom Cherry just smirked at him. "Yeah,
yeah. Boys? Cuff `em and hood `em."
**********
I always felt sorry for
Ned.
On the face
of it, he and Dad couldn't be more different. Dad was a professional healer and
Ned was a professional killer. Dad was an atheist and Ned, I think, was a believer.
One was white, one was black. One was a cynic; the other was a patriot. Ned
believed America could pull itself back from the brink if enough people tried
hard enough. My Dad knew America was already dead. They shouldn't have reminded
me of each other. But they did. They were both brave, they were both
kind-hearted, and they both wanted to help people. They both believed that
there were things in this ugly fucking world that were not only worth salvaging
but protecting. They were both betrayed by powerful people in their
communities. They were both killed in cold blood. Neither of their communities,
neither Polk nor the Republic of Denver, lasted much longer after their deaths.
And they
were both stupid.
The old
saying is true – the good really do die young. That's the reality of our
society – what's left of it. Trust gets you killed. Love breaks you down. You
can put those feelings to people if you want, but you won't receive the
equivalent. Your reward won't be trust in kind, or love in kind, it'll be
betrayal and heartbreak. That's why there's no real safe
haven in this world because no matter what community humans build, other
humans make it their business to take it over or tear it down. It's just what
we do. And for every do-gooder there's ten ne'er-do-wells primed to fulfil the
prophesy.
But I can't
help but feel sorry for Ned. Him and Dad both.
Fuck Tom
Cherry.
Tom Fucking
Cherry.
His goons
took our pistols away, clapped cuffs on us, and threw burlap hoods over our
heads, then hustled us out of the admin building into the back end of what felt
like (and what turned out to be) a pick-up truck. We still heard Tom Cherry's
voice, ordering his men to hurry up, load up the guns, get inside; he would
personally seal the deal with Wuhrer, the weaselly little bastard. There was
more shuffling. More of Tom's men climbed into the rear of the pick-up,
civilian conscripts, surly old bastards ripe with the stench of tobacco and BO.
They kept their guns trained on us. We couldn't see but we knew that much. A
couple minutes later tyres crunched dust and they drove off. But they made a slight
mistake.
They didn't
check us for other weapons.
Sustained darkness disorients.
That's what Pastor Evans taught his Fruit
of God, anyway. Hooding a captive wasn't just about keeping them from knowing
the route to a location; it restricted breathing, messed with their sense of
direction, trapped them with their thoughts. And it was all true. While the pick-up
truck rolled bumpily down what he could only imagine was a freeway, Jay tried
to envision where they might be heading. North was Wyoming, northeast was
Nebraska, southeast was Kansas, and south was Colorado Springs. It felt like
they were headed westward, but after two turns and a stop (one of the riflemen
needed to piss) Jay lost track of it. He felt anxious then. More so than before. He tried to calm himself
by remembering what they taught him in Polk about capture. Don't
catastrophize. Set yourself goals. Pay attention to your surroundings. Speak
little. Keep your mind clear and active. None of it helped. This was worse
than the Forager attack, somehow, at least with that they had a chance of
escape. But this? How did they escape this?
Jay's leg trembled as the fright crept
into him. Whenever he got scared, he'd seek reassurance from Parker, but Tom
Cherry's men wouldn't let them talk to each other. They were together, but Jay
was alone. And he was terrified.
The pickup rattled on down the road from
bump to pothole for what felt like ages until Tom Cherry finally spoke.
"There they are. Stay frosty, boys. Keep your guns low and don't talk unless I
say so. Once we hand these two over, we'll double back to Buckley."
Tom's men grunted back their
affirmations.
The pick-up slowed to a stop. Jay felt
the weight lift off the van as the Republicans hopped out and opened the rear
doors, dragging the two boys out by their feet, and marching them up the road.
With his hands cuffed and his head hooded Jay could barely walk straight, but
one of the grunts kept him upright, and warned him not to `try anything funny'
as they delivered the package.
Jay heard a gun rattle.
Then someone shouted – "That's far
enough!"
Wuhrer, Jay thought. It's him.
"As you fancy," said Tom Cherry. "We've
brought what you asked for."
"...Show me."
After a pause the man behind Jay snatched
his hood off. A wave of warm air hit his face and nostrils, he let out a gasp
he didn't know he needed, then looked to his left and saw Parker there with
him; hood off and cuffs on, sweat dripping down his nose and lip, but he was
resolute. There wasn't a shred of fear or doubt on his face.
And up ahead? Up ahead with the remainder
of his road crew was the captain of the 13th Militia of the Fifty-Five Thousand
Army, the man called Wuhrer. It was the first good look Jay got of him. Silver-haired,
lean, mid-fifties maybe, but well-muscled for a man that age. Wuhrer stood in
beige-color khakis and a white wife beater with a holstered Glock-19 lulling
from his brown leather belt. Silvery dog tags swung from his neck, sparkling in
the blazing sun. A bulbous scar ran down the length of his face.
Wuhrer's road crew held his rear. Six
surly, sweaty militiamen with 12-gauges and magged-up M16s casually idling on
the hoods and vans of two black-painted F-150s parked side by side like a
roadblock. They smirked menacingly at Tom Cherry's men but said nothing to
them. Their captain had the floor.
"Put down your weapons." Said Wuhrer.
Tom Cherry frowned. "I took personal
risk, extraordinary risk, to bring these two boys to you, Wuhrer. I'm here in
good faith, I promise you that."
"Promises aren't worth a fart in the
wind," said the captain. "Put your pistol down, tell your men to put their
rifles down, then bring those two shitbirds over here."
Tensions were raw. Neither side trusted
the other very much – they'd fought each other a hell of a lot longer
than either group had fought the Foragers – but in that moment all the power
was on the 55ers' side. Wuhrer had twice the men Tom Cherry did, and far better
weapons, not to mention that pissing off Wuhrer meant the Republicans losing
their escort out of Denver. Tom had no choice. Grudgingly, but calmly, he
unholstered his Beretta and carefully set it to the ground, then ordered his
three grunts to do the same. They grumbled but they complied, lowering their
Winchesters.
Tom Cherry then shoved Parker forward.
"Get your ass over there."
Jay half-expected Parker to say or do
something stupid over that, but he didn't. He ate the shove with barely a
grimace and walked forward toward Wuhrer. Jay followed him. The two boys slowly
shuffled over and presented themselves before the captain. The older boy looked
him dead in the eye, the younger one couldn't meet it – so Wuhrer shoved his
fist into the older boy's stomach, winding him, dropping him to his knees,
gasping and coughing.
"Parker!" Yelled Jay.
Wuhrer knelt, and growling like a dog,
shoved Parker's face into the hot dirty tarmac. "It's going to be slow and
painful, boy. Slow and painful. I don't care about the guns or the meds. It's
my son... you killed my son... and I swear you're going to pay
for it."
Jay's eyes watered. "Please don't hurt
him..."
"SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" Shouted Wuhrer. "This
all started with you, you little shit! Own it!"
The Mixon boy bit his lip. If there was
anything he feared more than pain it was seeing Parker in pain. It broke his
heart watching the boy he loved be treated like that. Jay wanted to look away,
couldn't bear to see Parker wincing through the agony with bloody teeth, but he
forced himself not to. And that was when Jay noticed something – something
slightly round in Parker's hip pocket – something no one else seemed to notice,
not even Wuhrer, who stood upright and stomped his boot on Parker's back,
pinning him to the dusty road.
"Wuhrer," said Tom Cherry. "I gave you
what you asked for. Now it's your turn. Help us get out of Denver."
A smirk.
The captain of the 13th
snapped his fingers and instantly, instinctively, his men aimed their shotguns
and semi-automatics at the dumbfounded Republicans. Tom Cherry tossed a glance
at his pistol on the ground, but thinking better of it, raised his hands
instead. His men followed suit.
"Damn you..." Seethed Tom. "We had a DEAL!"
Wuhrer chuckled, his boot still lodged in
Parker's back. "That's funny because I don't recall signing on no dotted line.
We've made a deal of our own... with the Foragers. We leave Denver to
them, and they give us 40% of the Republican cattle. Once the Battalion's
defeated and disarmed, we get 45% of the guns. Food, fuel, and meds are all
theirs, but still. A bargain's a bargain. Boys? Light `em up."
Their guns clapped the second Wuhrer gave
the order – tearing new assholes into Tom Cherry and his men, shooting them out
of their shoes, dropping them like flies. But Jay's eyes never left Parker's.
Wuhrer didn't see Parker's cuffed hands slowly reach beneath his body into his
pocket and pull a grenade, not until the shooting started and, in its chaos, he
jerked his shoulders and threw Wuhrer off his back, pulled the pin, and rolled
it beneath the leftmost of the two black F-150s as he shrieked at Jay to push
up to his feet and run.
Wuhrer fell back. Parker ran left, Jay
ran right. It all happened so quickly, so suddenly, that only two of the six
55ers realized what was happening and lowered their guns to give chase but by
then it was too late – the grenade went off, directly beneath a fuel tank. And
what would have been a small, perforating blast became a gas-fueled explosion
that rippled through the ground and tore open the metallic guts of their
vehicles, smoke and dust and sparks pluming into the air, the force shearing limbs and fingers like a thresher, all amidst blazing fire
that gnawed and fused helpless flesh into falling blackened husks raining over
crushed tarmac and wind-tossed grass.
Jay felt the blast in his teeth it was so
powerful. He stumbled, falling into the grass, daring to look back through
drifting smoke at the burning husks of the F-150s. A charcoaled forearm slapped
into the grass and rolled near him. He shrieked with disgust.
"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, JAY, GET UP!" Roared
Parker.
Evans was up ahead already, past the
shot-up corpses of Tom Cherry and his Republican guards. He'd snatched one of
their Winchesters and made a beeline for the beaten-up Chevy Silverado that
brought them there. Jay got up. He dragged himself up. No more looking
back. The Mixon boy jogged around the four corpses and caught up to the
Silverado just as Parker revved the engine. It took a minute to start her up,
but her got her humming just as Jay climbed inside and slammed the passenger
side door shut.
Parker's hands took the wheel awkwardly
(thanks to the cuffs), but he could drive if Jay helped him with the stick shift.
Together, they backed the pick-up away from the carnage and car fire that
would've enchanted ol' Pumpkinhead on a different day
and time, turned, then drove off in the opposite direction.
**********
We were lucky.
He had just the right weapon. Made
just the right throw. At just the right distance away.
We were too lucky.
I was too lucky.
And luck always runs out.
**********
Judging by the map Jay found inside the glove
box they'd been driven out to a spot marked "meet up point" just a mile east of
a small town called Seibert on the Dwight D. Eisenhauer Highway of I-70. The
Republic of Denver (or at least its hollowed-out carcass) was more than 100
miles west of it. According to that map, there were more than a few roads
bearing south from the interstate. The 59 through Seibert, the 5 through
Flagler, the 43 through Arriba, and the 31 through Genoa, right before the I-70
bent northeast towards the city. Any one of them could take them south and
after few changeovers get them onto Route 350 bound for Trinadad and from there
it was straight to New Mexico – just like they'd planned in Fort Collins.
But everything had changed, somehow.
Jay felt that.
He felt it harder when he looked over at
Parker, snarling angrily as his cuffed hands struggled with the wheel. Jay,
sheepishly, suggested that they find somewhere worth searching for some tools
to uncuff themselves. "I can handle it!" He snapped. "I don't wanna waste
anymore fucking time."
And that's that, thought Jay. But then ten, maybe fifteen minutes later a dilapidated
farmhouse came up on their left and the older boy eyed it over. "Here, then..."
He spoke.
And that felt a little like progress to
Jay – a suggestion taken. Together they slowed the Silverado down and pulled
onto a dirt track that winded like a rattler through the weeds until it
furrowed into the farmhouse's collapsed porch. Ragged curtains billowed through
its broken windows. Its front door swung limp from a single hinge, rusted and
busted with age. Overgrown hedges reached as high as its decaying rooftop,
which lay cratered in (probably by a tornado). It was more of a haunted house
than a farmhouse, but Parker was too frustrated to be scared – or cautious –
and Jay was too tired to be either.
It was like Jay still felt the explosion
in his ears. They rang like a buzzer and his head pounded with it. It felt like
a migraine coming. He wanted to lie down somewhere and get some sleep in, but
the way Parker climbed out of the pick-up and slammed the door behind him, he
was in no mood for rest. Jay slowly followed him to the garage adjoining the
main building, which luckily for them was already part ways open. Parker hooked
his fingers beneath the dented aluminum and shoved it all the way open.
The garage, like most abandoned buildings
they came by, was looted. An almost empty concrete box smeared with oil stains
and moss growth. There was no car, no fuel cans, no toolbox, no saws, no
drills, not even any nails. But... there was a hammer. Jay spotted it amongst the
broken shards of an overturned terracotta vase and Parker took it up. "This'll
do."
They spent another half-hour fighting
with the cuffs. In the end they couldn't get them off, only break the chains
holding them together, but it'd just have to do for now. It took Jay twenty
minutes to break Parker's cuffs, and it took the latter ten minutes to break
the former's. Once they were both free, they went through a side door into the
kitchen just to see if there was anything worth taking. It was rotted through
from the ceiling of chipped paint to the cracked checker tile floor, with
little to offer in its fridge and cupboards except crispy, knotted up packets
of long decayed food. Aside from a spool of rope and the hammer they found in
the garage, there was nothing useful left.
"Maybe there's something worthwhile
upstairs?"
Parker growled again beneath his breath.
"This is a waste of time, let's just go."
They made their way out with the hammer
and rope. There were four backpacks in the rear of the Chevy, one for the late
Tom Cherry and three for his fellow dead guards. Each pack carried 3 days'
worth of army rations, a Beretta and two spare mags apiece, two 5.56mm mags
apiece, a med kit, a compass, a flashlight, a notepad, a full water canteen, a
firearm cleaning kit, and a rollable sleeping bag. They were a good find. But
Jay didn't stop to help Parker pack the claw hammer and rope away, his head was
still too ropey, especially after banging that hammer for so long. He needed to
get off his feet, so he climbed into the passenger side and eased back into the
seat, shutting his eyes.
If he hadn't, if he'd helped, he'd have
noticed Parker emptying out the contents of one pack and splitting it between
the other three.
But by the time Parker got back into the
Silverado Jay was already asleep.
It was a restless and unpleasant sleep.
He saw white phantoms dancing in the darkness, vultures and ravens squawking
from the skeletal branches of leafless trees, snowfields set ablaze, howling
winds, he himself loss in a field of weeds shrieking and whimpering beneath a
bigger man's weight as Hunter Wuhrer's scowling face melted into the blackened
bones of his cracked skull.
Jay jolted awake.
He awoke to the wind whipping his face –
a cool breeze that soothed his aching head... some. They were out on the road,
driving at some speed, high noon approaching. He cast a glance at Parker, his
broken handcuffs looping around his wrists as the breeze caught them. Jay
looked down at his own and smiled at them – they were matching. Kind of like a
couple. Then he looked at Parker again and noticed how restless he looked,
almost like he was afraid of something. It wasn't like him.
"Hey," said Jay, softly. "It's okay,
we're safe now. We'll get there."
The older boy nodded. Didn't say anything,
didn't look away from the road. Just nodded. But Jay let it be. He didn't want
to bother Parker, he just wanted to get out of Colorado once and for all. So,
instead of talking Jay turned his head to the open window and let the cool
winds billow through his hair. They sat and drove together in silence. Jay was
content with that for a time.
But then they passed through Seibert and
didn't turn south for the 5. Jay tried not to think anything of it. But then it
happened again at Flagler, and Arriba, and Genoa, but still Jay tried not to
panic... not until Parker overshot the southbound turn onto Route 40... instead he
put his foot on the gas and pressed on up the I-70 as its rough concrete track
bent northwestward. Towards Denver.
Jay blinked. "...What are you doing?"
"What do you mean `what am I doing'...?"
Said Parker. "I'm driving."
"I mean, where are you driving?"
Parked pulled a confused scowl. "Are you
concussed? Fucking Buckley, where do you think we're going? Didn't you hear
what Tom Cherry said? They're gonna kill McCullough."
For the briefest hour Jay thought he'd
never have to hear that fucking name ever again. And then there it was. Back in
his mouth. Back in his mind. "Are... are you kidding me?"
"What?"
Jay's eyes tore open. "Are you crazy?!"
Parker shot him a sideways glance over
the dash as the bending side road remerged with the freeway of the I-70 proper
near Limon. "The fuck are you talking about?"
"The fuck are YOU talking about?" Shouted
Jay. "You wanna drive us back into a fucking warzone over some girl!?
Have you lost your mind?!"
"Oh, I don't have time for another one of
your fucking bitch-fits, Jay! Jesus goddamned Christ just strap on some fucking
balls for once in your GODDAMN life and help me!"
Jay's heart thumped inside his chest.
"...Stop the car."
"Fuck you, we're not stopping."
Jay's blood pounded in his ears. "Stop
the car, I wanna get out!"
"I said fuck you, we're not
stopping!"
Jay grabbed the wheel. "I SAID STOP THE
FUCKING CAR!"
There was a tussle.
The tussle led to a skid.
And the skid led to a crash.
Screeching tires gave way to a crush of
glass and metal. Trapped screams rang out through cracked glass as the
Silverado rolled over and the world went with it. All went to black.
Absolute darkness.
Until pain, hot red pain, opened its
rifts.
Jay's eyes, now bloodshot, fluttered
open. He couldn't see anything through them but blurs. Dust motes and smoke
particles had crystallized with tears and crusted them over. Everything was a
blur. He tried to scrub his eyes clean, but his right arm wouldn't move. It
felt numb, and he couldn't feel his fingers on it, so he tried his left arm
instead. It moved. Painfully. He took his thumb to his eyes and scrubbed them
dry. Then he opened them and saw white. An airbag, cushioning his face and
chest. And beyond that? A smoky windshield cobwebbed with fractures and set to
break – and beyond that he saw nothing. Then he turned to his left (what felt
like his right) where a deflated airbag climbed up the broken circle of a
cracked steering wheel bent awkwardly towards an empty seat.
Parker...! Jay tried to say the name rather than think it, but his mouth was full
of blood and phlegm. He spat it out, clearing his throat. "P-Parker...! W-w-where...?"
The boy turned to his right (what felt
like his left) and saw the world inverted. The sky was down. The road was up.
And Jay was dizzy. But then he spotted red-stained jeans shuffle across the
concrete sky, and only then did he realize that the side window was completely
shattered. His seat belt felt tight. Jay gritted his bloody teeth and fought to
unhook it with his good hand, even as his skin pricked everywhere, tiny cuts
across his arms and neck and legs and stomach, his clothes ripped to pieces.
The belt gave way and he landed on the roof of the car with a thud.
The Mixon boy squealed, like a piece of
glass or metal had driven its way deeper into his flesh, but he kept going,
twisting himself right side up and carefully pulling himself through the
imploded car window, but got caught halfway. Something was wrapped around his
leg and wouldn't let go. A seat belt, maybe? He strained against it but no
matter what he did it would not budge. And he was in so much pain...
...and then he saw Parker.
Shuffling ahead, dragging his right foot
behind him, a sprain. His jeans were blood-soaked on one leg from a massive
gash down its length. He gripped his stomach. Dirt and grass and blood fouled
his face. But onward he lumbered, shuffling past Jay's window, and slowly
doubling back to the rear of the pickup.
"P-Parker..." Jay coughed.
The older boy said something back, but
Jay's ears rang to loudly to hear it. Everything had an echo, a muffled echo,
even as the car horn bleared out repeatedly, BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
Then Jay heard feet scraping against the
concrete again, coming in his direction. He saw Parker again, with his curly
hair bathed in soot and sun, blood trickling down his bruised jaw, tattered
clothes barely clinging to his body, chest and shoulders inflating with every
intake of breath and every pump of blood – but he was alive, and he was whole.
Parker Evans. His beautiful boy.
He had the three packs with him. Two
swung from their straps in his right hand. The third was strapped to his back.
And in his left hand he carried a dented gas can.
"P-Parker..." Jay forced a weak smile.
"Y-you're alright..."
The older boy caught his breath and
looked away. He looked at the sky, and then the road, still panting for breath,
then threw a glare down at Jay that made the younger boy's blood curdle.
A glare of disgust.
"McCullough... she was right about you," he
said. "You're not cut out for this. You're weak... and you're gonna get me
killed..."
Tears.
"...Parker," Jay's cut fingers reached out
to him. "Parker, please..."
He threw one of the packs down, just
close enough for Jay to reach.
"No," said Parker. "...Make it on your own...
or don't. I'm done with you."
The road ahead was long and leafy. There
was a town in that direction called Limon. It would have cars there, better
preserved than the rotting, rusty husks outlining the highways. All anyone had
to do was fill the tank and hotwire it. A town called Limon, just a mile
ahead. Parker turned to it. With a sigh and a sniff. He turned toward it and
slowly hobbled away, leaving Jay where he lay, in a pile of bloody glass.
"Parker...!" Jay sobbed. He coughed. He
spat blood out of his mouth then he coughed again. "Parker, please! I LOVE you,
please! Please don't leave me! PLEASE! PARKER!"
**********
So, yeah.
He left me.
My childhood friend. My confidant. My
heart. The center of my world. He just... left me. I begged him to stay, to help
me, to forgive me, but nothing I said made him turn back. Parker just walked
away until he was a speck on the horizon – and then he was gone. I was alone.
And I cried myself unconscious. I don't remember much after that... at least not
that first day.
But I do remember... waking up in the
darkness. I remember cutting my leg free from the driver's side safety belt
with a piece of glass and crawling out of the wreck. I remember standing up,
falling over, then standing up again. And then I remember walking. I couldn't
tell you which direction I took. I don't think I even cared back then. I just
walked. Walked and walked and walked. There was rain at some point, so I found
shelter in an old gas station and huddled up against the boarded doors. Forced
myself to drink some water, forced myself eat some rations, cried some more.
Then I thought about things.
Parker, mostly. But other things. I thought
about going to Denver, but I knew he wouldn't take me back. I thought about
going south to Mexico, but I knew I couldn't make it on my own. I thought about
Polk and cried again when I realized I'd give ANYTHING to go back, back to the
way things were, but the town was gone now, everyone dead or enslaved. No more
Polk. Then I thought about my Dad... the one person on earth who ever truly loved
me... and I put my pistol in my mouth so I could see him again.
But I chickened out.
Too weak to live, too scared to die.
So? I just sat in the darkness,
shivering with cold, watching the rainfall. I fell asleep. Woke up. Morning.
Walked some more. Hid from a passing road crew. Got up and walked again. I
didn't check the map, didn't bother with the compass. I didn't know where I was
going, I didn't CARE where I was going. I just walked and walked until I came
across a reservoir.
Lake Meredith, a sign said.
I looked at it... 5500 surface acres...
the largest body of water I'd ever seen, and I thought, `What if it just
washed me away?' Just like that. And so, I just... walked into the water. `Carry
me away', I thought. `Sink me to the deep'. After that, I don't
know. Even now my memory of the lake is fuzzy, I just... see pictures in my mind
of thrashing limbs and bubbles. Darkness. Nothing else.
And then?
And then I woke up on a shoreline,
soaking wet and spluttering, and there was a shadow over me.
A man.
********
• Thanks for reading, everybody! Hope you
enjoyed it, comments and criticism are always welcome at stephenwormwood@mail.com, love to hear from you.
•
Please read some of my other stories
on Nifty: Wulf's Blut (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Dancer of Hafiz (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), The Cornishman (gay, historical), A Small Soul Lost (gay, fantasy/sci-fi), and Torc and Seax (transgender, magic/sci-fi).